


open up your door

by sunsetozier



Series: tumblr prompts [7]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fill, i mean i love them and thank you but still, it doesnt happen but theres a line that implies eddie thinks richie might be dead, mentions death, this shit hurted, very vague mention of assumed potential suicide attempt, why do people send me sad prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 19:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15589032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetozier/pseuds/sunsetozier
Summary: Dial. Call. Listen to it ring.Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system. Please leave a message or hang up and try again.[In which Richie doesn't know how to cope with the loss of his mother.]





	open up your door

**Author's Note:**

> lets get real: it is 6:30 in the morning. i have not slept a wink all night. this is sad and made me cry. ignore my typos for i am dead tired and cant be bothered with editing. 
> 
> anyway i got an anon on tumblr requesting:
> 
> _the way i say i love you number 22: muffled, from the other side of the door ___  
> _  
> _warning for mentions of death and a very vague line implying the assumption of a suicide attempt that turns out to be a false assumption._  
>  _

            Dial. Call. Listen to it ring.

            _Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system. Please leave a message or hang up and try again._

            “Hey, it’s, uh- it’s me. Sorry, that’s probably stupid, um… I know you probably don’t want to talk to anyone right now, and I totally get that you need your space and I want to respect that, but everyone’s saying they haven’t talked to you since Friday, and, uh… I dunno. I’m just worried, I guess. Just, uh- shoot me a text when you get this and let me know if you’re doing okay? I won’t bug you after that until you’re ready, I promise.”

            Hang up. Wait. Dial. Call. Listen to it ring.

            _Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system. Please leave a message or hang up and try again._

            “Hey. It’s Tuesday and I still haven’t heard from you. I don’t want to bug you or anything, but we’ve never gone more than a day or two without talking, and it’s been four, which is- it’s dumb, I know, and I’m sorry, but… it’s not just me. When I asked the others, they all said the same thing, that they still haven’t heard from you. I mean, even your dad said he hasn’t heard from you when I asked, and I’m… I hate to say this, but I’m starting to get a little scared. If you don’t let me know you’re okay soon, I’m gonna stop by your place, alright? So just- just get back to me. Please?”

            Hang up. Sigh. Worry. Wait. Dial. Call. Listen to it ring.

            _Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system. Please leave a message or hang up and try again._

            “It’s been five days. I’m… I don’t know. Call me. Please, just- _call me_.”

            Hesitate. Hang up. Sigh. Worry. Try not to cry. Wait. Dial. Call. Listen to it ring.

            _Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system. Please leave a message or hang up and try again._

            “Wow, I never thought that message would make me feel sick, but here we are. Anyway, uh- a week is too long and I’m way past scared. I’m fucking terrified. Either get ahold of me by the end of the day or I’m going to your place after work and figuring out what the hell is going on. You… _fuck_. I don’t- I don’t know what to expect, and I never thought you might… you know? But now I’m starting to consider it, so, just- Christ. I better fucking find you alive, that’s all I’m saying.”

 

 

 

 

            Eddie’s entire body feels jittery when he makes his way up the front steps of Richie’s apartment building, offering a tight-lipped smile to the doorman as he passes. Usually, he would stop and initiate a pleasant conversation, but he can’t even force out a proper greeting as he walks past the elevator and starts bounding up the stairs two steps at a time.

            The day passed by in a daze, and thank god he can perform his job on solely muscle memory, because he was no focused at all on the tasks at hand. He thinks he changed a few tires and fixed up a few busted engines and met up with the person they hired to do taxes for the mechanics shop he works for, but he can’t be sure. It all blended together in a fog of worry and overthinking and checking the clock until finally – oh, _finally_ – he could make his way across the city to knock on Richie’s door.

            Except there’s no answer, and Eddie can feel his heartbeat in his throat as he holds his breath and listens for any sign of life from the other side. When there’s nothing, he tries again, knocking a little louder and a little longer. Again, utter silence greets him, and his veins run icy with fear as he scrambles to pull the spare key Richie gave him when they stared dating out of his back pocket. He never thought he’d need to use it, because he never imagined a situation where he would be locked out in the first place, but he’s beyond grateful that he never lost it despite never using it before. It feels like time slows down as he slides the key in the lock, the only thing he can hear being his own shaky breathing and the click as he turns it. The door opens with a creak. Eddie holds his breath and takes a cautious step inside.

            It looks like Richie’s apartment was hit by a tornado. Things are scattered across the floor, the coffee table on its side, a mug smashed on the floor, pictures laying face down in small piles of shimmering glass. Eddie swallows thickly, hearing the crunch of glass beneath his feet as he approached the closest photo, leaning over and gingerly taking it in his hands to turn it around. As expected, he finds a picture of Richie with his parents – this one, Eddie actually remember taking, as it had been at their high school graduation. Maggie and Wentworth both look insanely proud and undoubtedly emotional, eyes red-rimmed as Richie grins a wide, cheesy grin between them, and he’s not looking at the camera, no. Eddie remembers taking this photo and feeling Richie’s eyes burning holes into his skin, but this was back when they were both dumbasses who refused to confront their feelings whilst still pining after each other endlessly. It’s a good picture, Eddie thinks, with three incredible people that Eddie feels blessed to even know.

            Well, _knew_. Not everyone in this picture is still alive.

            It’s that thought that spurs Eddie to move on, carefully brushing off the broken glass from the photo and the frame before stepping forward and doing the same with the other four photos scattered across the living room floor. He sets them in a gentle stack on the kitchen table and makes a mental note to clean this place up later, but first, he has a much bigger, much more important priority.

            Richie’s bedroom is located at the end of the short hall – a hall that Eddie is well accustomed to walking down, from all the nights he’s stayed over and stumbled his way to Richie’s room with kiss-bruised lips and Richie’s hand in his. It feels vastly different now from every other time he’s walked down it, and never before has he felt as nervous as he does right now, standing outside of the bedroom door and raising a trembling hand to knock.

            The sound of his fist hitting the wooden surface echoes in the silence of the apartment. Eddie swallows the lump in his throat, leans his forehead against the door frame, and quietly calls out, “Richie? You in there?” Much to his dismay, he can’t hear anything. He tries the doorknob, but it doesn’t budge, and unlike the front door, he doesn’t have a key to get in. Trying to resist the urge to crumble into a helpless bundle of endless tears, he brokenly adds, “Please, just- just say something. okay? Let me know you’re alive in there. I’m- I can’t- _please_ , baby? Please?”

            For a long moment, nothing happens. Just as Eddie’s considering how hard it will be to break the door down, he faintly hears Richie’s voice respond, “I’m alive.”

            An involuntary sob of relief rips its way from the back of Eddie’s throat as he leans against the door, his knees almost giving out beneath him. “Oh, thank god,” he breaths, bracing one hand on the door frame to keep himself standing and bring up another to wipe away the tears the suddenly roll down his cheeks. Inhaling deeply, he takes a moment to gather himself and pushes himself back, knowing that just because Richie talked to him doesn’t mean he’s ready to open the door. “I don’t work again until Wednesday, ‘cause one of the guys is trying to get hours in before going on vacation with his family so we switched around our shifts, and, uh… I’m not gonna push you, okay? Take however much time you need, but just- just know that I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere, and I want to be here for you when you’re ready to let me. You don’t even have to come out if you don’t want to, I’ll put food outside your door and wait in the living room until you grab it, but when you’re ready… I’ll be right here. Is that okay?”

            Again, a long moment of silence, and then Richie says, “Okay.” And it’s not a lot, no, but after a full week of radio silence, it’s more than enough.

            “Okay,” Eddie murmurs, letting his eyes flutter shut for a minute. Part of him just wants to break down the door and pull Richie into a warm embrace, but he knows it won’t be beneficial until Richie is ready to accept that comfort. So, with deep breath to calm his fast-beating heart, he presses his palm to the door and adds, “I love you.”

            “I love you, too,” Richie replies, his voice muffled and sad but still there.

            Swallowing roughly, Eddie lingers only for a moment before turning away and making his way to the living room.

 

 

 

 

            It takes another twenty-four hours for Richie to come out of his room.

            In that time, Eddie lets their friends know that Richie is alive, cleans the broken glass, makes dinner, sets a plate outside of Richie’s door, tosses and turns on the sofa until five in the morning, makes breakfast, sets a plate outside of Richie’s door, digs out some new picture frames for the ones that had shattered glass, reorganizes Richie’s bookshelf with the pictures in their new frames placed in the very front, and marathons an entire season of Friends just to pass the time. He makes lunch, too, but he doesn’t have the appetite to eat it and instead leaves it with the untouched pile of the previous meals he made outside of Richie’s door.

            He hears the click of the door unlocking as he’s getting ready to make dinner. At first, he wants to spin around and sprint to Richie, to throw himself into Richie’s chest and hold him close, but this isn’t about him. He’s not the one who’s going through such a hard situation right now. This needs to happen at Richie’s pace, no slower and no faster than whatever he wants.

            With that thought, Eddie puts down the pan he had just pulled out of the cupboard onto the counter and turns around, gripping onto the edge of the countertop to the point that his knuckles turn while. He watches with bated breath as the silhouette in the hallway shuffles forward until, what feels like a hundred years later, Richie finally emerges into the kitchen with his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders hunched over, squinting through the light.

            The first thing Eddie notices is that Richie definitely hasn’t eaten much in the past week. Compared to the last time he saw him, when they were hanging out at Eddie’s place (when Richie got the call), he’s thinned out considerably, his already lanky form look damn near skeletal, ribs far too visible for comfort and hip bones sticking out much more than usual. The second thing Eddie notices is that Richie is in dire need of a shower, his hair a greasy mess of tangles curls that look knotted beyond repair, the patchy scruff of the beginning of a beard shadowing his face, bare chest visibly glinting with days upon days worth of sweat building up.

            But, even as bad as he looks, Eddie feels his heart skip a beat.

            “Hey,” Eddie says, his tone soft and inviting, not pressuring Richie to answer but giving him the opportunity to. He expects Richie to nod, maybe try for a smile (and ultimately fall short) and offer a quiet little greeting. What he _doesn’t_ expect is for Richie’s lower lip to immediately tremble as he lurches forward and stumbles his way across the kitchen. Instinctively, Eddie meets him half way, catching him in his arms before he can crash to the floor, and his entire body aches as Richie buries his face into Eddie’s neck and lets out a rough, painful sounding sob. “Shh,” Eddie coos, wrapping one arm around Richie’s waist to hold up his weight and lifting his other to run his fingers through Richie’s hair – a somewhat difficult task, due to the tangles and the knots, but he knows how comforting Richie finds it, so he keeps going anyway. “I got you, Rich. You’re gonna be okay.”

            Richie shakes his head, balling up the material of Eddie’s shirt in his hands and trying to pull him closer despite the fact that there’s no more space between them. Wordlessly, Eddie does his best to lead them to the kitchen table, being very careful not to run them into anything along the way, and then sits down in one of the chairs, allowing Richie to clamber onto his lap and clutch onto him like a lifeline, still weeping as he does so. He doesn’t bother trying to speak quite yet, and Eddie can understand why – with just the heavy crying, Richie is gasping for air, struggling to get breaths in and let them out. If he tried to talk right now, he’d only choke on his words.

            Withdrawing slightly, Eddie cradles Richie’s face in his palms and uses his thumbs to wipe away the tears shining on his cheeks. “Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, pushing away his own urge to cry from just seeing Richie like this. There will always come a time where he can break, and he knows that when that time comes, Richie will be his shoulder to lean on. Right now, that’s what he needs to be: strong and reliable. For Richie. “You can do it,” he goes on, maintaining eye contact with Richie, feeling his heart ache at the endless sadness swimming in those ocean blues that he loves so much. “C’mon, Rich. Copy my breathing, alright? In for five, out for seven. Ready? In,” Eddie inhales audibly, pride bubbling in his stomach as Richie attempts to follow, through his breathing cuts off half way as another hiccupped sob burst past his chapped lips. Eddie only nods encouragingly and says, “Out,” as he exhales just as loud as before, and again, Richie attempts to follow, breaths still stuttering in his chest. Eddie repeats this for a few minutes, still lightly thumbing over Richie’s cheeks, until Richie’s dry heaving sobs have reduced to even breaths and a steady trickle of tears. Softly, Eddie says, “Talk to me, Rich.”

            “I…” Richie trails off, his voice hoarse and his features strained. He brings up a shaky hand to rest on top of Eddie’s, leaning their forehead together as another wave of tears gather in his eyes. In a tone so hopelessly heartbroken, Richie whispers, “She’s gone. She’s _gone_ , Eds.”

            “I know,” Eddie responds, just as quiet and sad. “I know she is. I’m so sorry.”

            Looking defeated, Richie lets his eyes flutter shut, his lashes brushing over the tops of his cheeks. “I’m not ready for this,” he murmurs, as if admitting to his deepest, darkest sin, shame laced in his words. “I thought- I mean, I knew it would happen, because it happens to everyone eventually, but not- not so soon, not to _her_ , and I just- I can’t- I can’t _do this_ , Eddie, I _can’t_ —”

            “Yes, you can,” Eddie interrupts sternly, his voice thick with held back tears and overwhelming emotion. “Getting through this is gonna be one of the hardest things you’ll ever do, but you _can_ do it, Richie. You’re going to miss her, I know- god, _I’m_ going to miss her, but… you can’t let this ruin your life. You know that.”

            “I know,” Richie agrees somewhat reluctantly, his features screwed up painfully, “but everything makes me think of her, and I feel like I’m gonna lose my mind, Eds. I mean, she was my _mom_ , and she’s… _fuck_. She’s _dead_.”

            Richie's voice breaks on the last word, and Eddie has a feeling that this is the first time he’s said it out loud since getting the news from his father, the first time he’s truly sat down and confronted how he feels rather than shutting himself out from the world in an attempt to feel nothing at all. That thought makes Eddie’s soul weep, but he files it away for a later time and instead focuses on what’s important right now, and that is the boy in front of him, looking at him through tear-damp eyelashes like the world is ending and Eddie is the only person who can save him. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he says, and he makes sure to keep his volume low and his tone gentle. “I don’t really want to let you go right now, so I’m gonna order some takeout for dinner, okay? I know you probably don’t have much of an appetite right now, but you have to eat at least some of it. If you’re feeling up to it, we’re gonna get you in the shower and clean you up, but if you aren’t feeling it then we can save that for tomorrow or something.” He withdraws his hand that Richie’s isn’t holding onto and runs his fingers through Richie’s hair softly as he adds, “This isn’t going to be easy, and I’m- fuck, I’m so sorry this is happening to you, but life is gonna go on, okay? You’ve been holed up in here for over a week now, and I’ll stay holed up in here with you for however long it takes, but if you don’t try to get back on your feet, you never will. Baby steps, okay?”

            Richie doesn’t respond to this for a long moment, pondering over Eddie’s words as he lets the feeling of Eddie’s fingers in his hair soothe over him, before slowly nodding. “Baby steps,” he repeats with a sniffle. He’s not crying anymore, but his eyes are red and his cheeks are sticky with tears, reminders that he had been merely moments before. Trying for a smile that looks just as soft and as sad as he is, he murmurs, “Thank you.”

            “Don’t thank me,” Eddie tells him, drawing him in for what he hopes is a chaste yet comforting kiss. When he pulls back, the pain is still clear in Richie’s eyes, but his smile looks a little bit more real, a little bit more genuine and grateful. Eddie brushes the hair out of Richie’s face, their noses bumping together slightly, and says, “I’d do anything for you, Rich. You know that.”


End file.
